The Padawan's Purpose
by Eirian Erisdar
Summary: In the Jedi Temple, on the night of Order 66, a nameless Padawan finally understands the purpose of his existence. The quietest heroes die without company. Oneshot.


_The Padawan's Purpose_

 _Eirian Erisdar_

* * *

The padawan pauses in his step as he senses the newborn monster draw closer.

One of the dozen harried younglings he has been attempting to herd towards an access vent half a level away voices a query in a hushed whisper.

"Why have we stopped?" Twelve pairs of wide, worried eyes stare up at him.

"Shhh," the padawan says quietly, pressing a finger to his lips. He glances over his shoulder again, braid swinging. The braid behind his ear is not stubby, but it is not long, either - it whispers over his shoulder with the slightest of touches as he turns his head.

The monster slides closer, an obsidian furnace in the Force, newly-stoked and ravenous in its hunger for air and life alike. It is still a few levels away, barely.

The padawan settles his young, war-trained gaze on the even younger eyes that look expectantly up at him.

No, not up at him. His braid.

In the absence of a clan master to guide them, the word of a Junior Padawan is given the same authority.

The initiates' Force-signatures are furled tightly inwards, in an instinctive shroud of self-preservation. Perhaps it is good - they do not seem to sense the wall of oncoming wrath.

The padawan smiles gently down at them, and they hurry on, down the flickering corridors, even as the heat from the black flames begin to flicker at padawan's cloak-hem.

The fire is coming, but the little group moves quickly, with the silent pad-pad of clan-trained feet. The padawan almost believes they will make it in time.

They are two corridors away when he knows they will not.

He flinches in place.

The fire whips towards their direction, like a dragon tasting the scent of prey in the air. The light, tranquil Force-plane of the Temple screeches in agony as it is rent apart at the monster's passage.

The padawan had heard the rumours, a few minutes ago when the attack had started.

That Anakin Skywalker had fallen to the Sith.

But there is no time for shocked horror, not now.

He kneels and speaks urgently to the eldest of the group. "Go. It's just ahead and to the right. You can't miss it. Climb down, get out, and find a change of clothes somewhere. I will find you if I can."

The Nautolan child scrutinises him with opaque carmine eyes. "You're lying," she says, succinctly.

The padawan manages a grin. He cannot find words to reply.

The children bow deeply to him, and sprint off.

In the silence of the long corridor, the padawan pivots in place, unclips his lightsaber, and waits.

Three thudding heartbeats, and the monster is here.

The Force is flash-frozen in sable ink. For a moment, it is as though the air itself has been polluted; the wave of shadow seems to seep down the long length of the hallway and down his quickening lungs.

The padawan stares at Anakin Skywalker's yellow eyes, and reaches into the Force. The Light whispers to him, and he understands. Finally, and completely.

Four years in the Temple before he was handed his first lightsaber; eight years as an initiate, one as a padawan; months on the battlefield, being trained by master and troopers alike, affectionately dubbed "The Little Commander" by his well-loved troops-

-All of it had been for one purpose, and one purpose only:

To be able to last fifteen seconds in battle against Anakin Skywalker, the new scion of the Sith.

Fifteen seconds is enough. The last of the younglings will be in the shaft by then.

The padawan does not waver. He thinks of his lightsaber - green, like his master's kind, wise eyes. Those eyes are already dull and glassed-over, he knows. He sensed her death, star-systems and light-years away, the moment the first attack hammered against the Temple doors.

Anakin Skywalker halts three paces away, and stares down at him with eyes of complete and utter lack of emotion.

The Sith does not tell him to move.

It makes sense. The only path before him now is death.

As the silver hilt clenched in black-gloved fingers begins to rise, the padawan wonders for a moment if the Negotiator has survived, even if the Hero With No Fear is no more.

He hopes the Force will be with Master Kenobi, as it will be with the younglings.

Yellow eyes, wreathed in flame.

The Light.

The padawan activates his lightsaber, and dives forward with a raw-throated yell. The emerald light from his plasma blade washes him with the colour of a forest in Spring, like far-away Endor under bright moonlight.

In the end, he lasts more than fifteen seconds.

He lasts a whole minute.

He has done his master proud.

There is no dea-

...

The Force. _Forever._

* * *

 _End_

* * *

 **A/N: Aaaaand I think that's my daily angst-quota fulfilled. I've cross-posted this to tumblr (eirianeridar tumblr com). I have been back to class for a couple days and the work has been rather stressful. I'm glad I have you all to write things for. 3 Leave a review if you like! I'll see if I can catch a break or two to work on some of my longer fics this week.**


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